"godhood" poems
Old man, you surface seldom.
Then you come in with the tide's coming
When seas wash cold, foam-
Capped: white hair, white beard, far-flung,
A dragnet, rising, falling, as waves
Crest and trough. Miles long
Extend the radial sheaves
Of your spread hair, in which wrinkling skeins
Knotted, caught, survives
The old myth of orgins
Unimaginable. You float near
As kneeled ice-mountains
Of the north, to be steered clear
Of, not fathomed. All obscurity
Starts with a danger:
Your dangers are many. I
Cannot look much but your form suffers
Some strange injury
And seems to die: so vapors
Ravel to clearness on the dawn sea.
The muddy rumors
Of your burial move me
To half-believe: your reappearance
Proves rumors shallow,
For the archaic trenched lines
Of your grained face shed time in runnels:
Ages beat like rains
On the unbeaten channels
Of the ocean. Such sage humor and
Durance are whirlpools
To make away with the ground-
Work of the earth and the sky's ridgepole.
Waist down, you may wind
One labyrinthine tangle
To root deep among knuckles, shinbones,
Skulls. Inscrutable,
Below shoulders not once
Seen by any man who kept his head,
You defy questions;
You defy godhood.
I walk dry on your kingdom's border
Exiled to no good.
Your shelled bed I remember.
Father, this thick air is murderous.
I would breathe water.
15.1k
The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth is what the law demands
but then the law is based upon the truth by which it issues its own commands.
The truth is based upon Reality where there can't be any idea of falsehood,
Reality is in fact the Absolute or Supreme Being that is really all Godhood.
___________________________________________
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 6:49 PM UTC
So, this is godhood. This is how it works.
It's dreaming up a world and killing it,
Abandoning the foibles and the quirks
Of crushed-together crumblings and bits,
Then sweeping out the wreckage with a curse
And carving out another fever dream.
It's wandering a mindscape universe
And sifting through the crop to find the cream
So you can save it while you burn the rest,
Just for the room to have another try.
The lovelies you've been cradling close to chest?
In time you'll cast them off to wilt and die
But for a while they're almost what you need.
Go raze the field and plant another seed.
May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 1:32 PM UTC
Muck bit her ivory nightgown, as if earth hungering
after her...the delicate collapse of a napkin,she.
Hours poured atop her head, her shaggy, silvery
mane suspended--its reluctant bounce captured
at midpoint...as a spiderweb under ultraviolet light.
Desert sands lost in contemplation, reminiscent of
her flesh--divulge her core as she sleeps in a
fetal position.
Her body spasms awkwardly...its will visibly slowed
from initial motion.
As the paralysis experienced by prey amid the astral
annals of nightmares.
She'll rise into that shine, wonder at the nightmare's
symbology...talk to her garden--whilst thinking of her
time to come.
Silkworm breached the parcel
of time, its cocooned inertia
coarsed through the opalescent
eye of God to Godhood.
Of time's ruination redeemed
in a solitary work...cupped
airless the unbridled form of
a trapezist spent itself.
Opened and closed somersaults
atripped a piece of said space...
nothingness regenerated to
move, to take step of itself.
A self-argumentative abstraction
glowed...undid its silken flag--
firmly planted in an undiscovered
region...her time come.
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 7:45 PM UTC
Wellspring of blood and gold
In flame and glory ever
Doest thou faithful rise
Cast off thy vapor shrouds
Radiance of ancient godhood undimmed
Magnified by singing ice
As prophesied in the late darkness thy
Hoped triumph heralded while
Bearers chained on metalled rails
Muttered protest under
Hoary breath of polar air
But lo! The brazen promise of thine
Image graven in beholder's eye
Rings hollow in the bitten ears
And the stung flesh
Feels thy boasted fire
Not at all
Above thee stands the city's goddess proud
So virile once thou smilest
Upon her white clad shoulder now
Ceres scorns thine impotence turns not
But fixes her steeled gaze
On the frozen north
Jan 25, 2019
Jan 25, 2019 at 10:46 AM UTC
Tell the moon not to complain,
go to the sun and leave a note,
We are not a broken piece of poetry
campaigning for love and affections,
we are crystals, lest you forget!
clear rays penetrating into hearts and souls of humans that seek to make themselves gods into godhood.
we are not grasshoppers to be chopped by a lazy legs printing a falseful legacy.
We are the elephants of the forest of wealth.
Never slaughter the thought of our lives
We are the breath of humans & fire searching for what brewed within men.
We are poems inked with tears and sweat
But those tears are of our bravery, &sweat, a joyful noise made by the skin for celebration of our kind.
We ****** hope in the palms of children,
yet filled with love and its synonyms.
Our lives are the poets who rhymed & colour the sweet lyric they were made to be.
We are the boy children, the hope; least you forget.
The moon of tomorrow,
The sun on faces of a beaming girl
The stars carved on the smile of the sky,
We are boys whose shadows recreate
We are boys whose palms are route of greatness & roadtrip of principles.
praise singers in the slippery wet floor,
nightingales singing lullabies,
bread feeding all mouth to satisfaction
When heronic names are carved look and see ours rightly placed.
we are braver than earth
we can pull it up and down like a tree.
we are the reptiles that wriggle down the hill of success and roar like a beast in a beautiful pail palm of dreams.
our fathers' tattered sins could not hold us down,
our mother's splitted fire guides our course of life!
We are the boys of tomorrow , the warriors of words hyping the hashtag of praises.
who has seen us has seen light,
He who behold us has nothing to fear.
We are mountains in praise of hope
we are oceans of mysteries and hidden treasures.
Have our words and actions in your words for we are time bomb against failure.
BOYCHILD, the sun that glows on every face that needs help.
©John Chizoba Vincent
From_ A_Pen_Refusing_Frustration.
Apr 8, 2018
Apr 8, 2018 at 1:42 PM UTC
Writing creates a paradigm.
Much like a camera, it is a paradigm that we can look through in order to see the world, or create one, from a different perspective.
I decided to step away from my art and look at the lens itself instead of looking through it.
What I found is that we are able to paint pictures with words, pictures that don’t exist and we can create artworks with those pictures that allow you to see them in the most magical way possible while knowing that each artwork is different and unique depending on the person that composes it.
It is being able to travel the world as we know it through symbols and letters while not moving an inch from where we are in time and lead ourselves to a beautiful yet twisted sense of duality.
Maybe it’s the feeling of godhood in creating life, worlds or even stories yet I am still human but I become a god outside of time.
I take my imagination and make it tangible.
They say actions speak louder than words but I am a writer and words are all I have. So, maybe one day, as these words drip from my fingertips they will find you and they will drown your thoughts with beautiful pictures and hopefully, you might just understand,
Why we write.
They say actions speak louder than words,
But there’s still a reason why the pen is mightier than the sword.
Oct 18, 2017
Oct 18, 2017 at 7:10 PM UTC
Whatever fear troubles you
only imagine
it has happened
You will have nothing left
but your Godhood
You will be hurled back
to the center
of the circle
And most of all
you will remember
your priorities
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 2:58 AM UTC
Through your blue eyes I see it all.
I.
Wasted romantic fantasies.
My heart upon a dish, a knife driven through it.
I met someone with oceans for eyes once before,
But her fair, golden hair turned to vipers, venom dripping from sharpened fangs.
I watched those snakes devour my soul.
While they digested that little broken piece of my existence,
I could feel the blood flowing out of every orifice of my body.
I grew cold.
But that Gorgon only giggled cruelly.
The vipers hissed in time with her poisonous laughter.
Already, my veins were turning black.
I watched her glide away with heart in claw,
As I fell to the cold, hard, unforgiving floor.
To me, the floor whispered,
“There’s no one to catch your fall this time.”
II.
I am a clock without a craftsman.
Hands forever immobile.
Forced to feel time but never realize it flowing by.
Too late.
Always have been, always will be.
I am the Could-Have-Been King.
Being with you, Athena, is almost as bad as being without you.
With you, I see the kingdom I could have had.
I see the godhood I could have attained;
All it would take is one kiss from your divine lips.
Yet I know they do not belong to me.
And so my hands are idle,
As is the rest of my body. My heart. My soul.
You claim that my hands are made of gold,
That I leave gilded fingerprints.
If only you knew how bloodstained they are,
Soiled by a thousand envious dreams.
You would not want these hands upon your face.
They sear my own eye-balls.
III.
All the Meanwhiles, the Never-Weres, the Only-Ifs,
Have taken up residence in my dreams.
They labor to build a perfect city,
Where you and I reign supreme.
Let us sojourn to our ephemeral city, on the moon,
Where we can watch the Earth spin, grow old, and change,
All through the tubes on our television sets.
We shall name the terrestrial river outside our palatial boundaries;
It shall be called Time.
It will be harsh year round on the moon.
The water may never reach our lips,
But at least we would satisfy each other’s thirst.
IV.
Athena, send your owl unto me.
Make me wise.
Make me worthy.
Bid me come, and I shall never falter.
Never again.
Throw that Medusa’s head into the flame of our passion,
And watch with sinister glee as the snakes writhe in agony.
Raise the blessed chalice to my lips,
Let me drink of your glory.
Only send me word,
And you would have me forever.
Feb 5, 2012
Feb 5, 2012 at 11:32 PM UTC
The lights in Beijing,
They are trying to imitate the stars,
Their falsehoods only ring true with the right song,
They only loose their deception in fake smiles,
And long standing words,
That have only little meaning left,
The waves in honolu,
Are trying to be the calming breath,
They only loose their depth,
When you cant believe your back at smitty's again,
When you see your last 5 spot,
And you know where it's going,
They can't calm you to sleep anymore,
The mountains in Denver are wanting to be Gods,
But they loose their glory in giant snow storms,
That make you feel like your fingers itch and numb,
Their Godhood is called into question when she won't wake up in bathroom stall,
And when you can't see the stars,
The heated wind in Phoenix,
Wants to be your warm blanket,
It just looses it's luster when you want to open your eyes to who you are,
When you can't breathe because of looks from far away people in far away minds,
And if you just need that cigarette to put the day behind you
The lights in Beijing shine true,
When the right song comes on,
And their glow is the hope that's left,
The waves in ol' Honolu breathe calm,
When you decide to go home,
And see your hopeful tomorrow,
Waves
The Mountains in Denver,
Are paying Godly attention,
When the sun comes a shining,
And remind you exactly where you are at,
The whisper,
It's exactly where you need to be
The hot windy days in Phoenix,
Show their comfort,
Dancing with dust and spinning with leaves,
The love of life always around,
And no matter where you are,
You just might be home.
Nov 11, 2019
Nov 11, 2019 at 12:02 PM UTC
My secret god that fills the sky
at night. Lord of the twilight,
of madness, death and
rapture.
Sinfully but with heads held high
we dine on the nectar of life.
This is a burden we, the chosen
must bear.
Are we, the rulers of the night
denied our right to godhood?
We, the kings of shadows born
of sacred blood.
Alas, it was with great sorrow
we left the world of men. Bereft
even of our humanity, we long
for redemption.
Sorry is our fate. False lives filled
only with bittersweet reminiscence
of a less unhappy past. A past when
we were alive.
Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 11:31 PM UTC
i’m lost without you, did i mention that?
i scrape my brain cells that hold the memory of you
the way you remove dead flesh from a heel
and i keep the skin cells in tiny glass jars like portable museums.
i carry them everywhere for emergencies
opening them up at dinner parties
while the normals are concentrating on the cooking method of a spatchcock.
i pull you out from my secret purse
hidden under socially self conscious tables
and i roll your flesh in my hands until you’re real again
while nodding in agreement that thyme and lemon jus is always a wise choice for a side.
it’s a stupid ritual really
one that serves only to widen the divide between me
and that big chance Buddha moment:
‘being ******* present’
such a noble pursuit
but always dull and motionless in your absence
all i notice is the loudness of our silence
like a train station in those quiet despair hours
between 11pm and tomorrow.
Btw, if you see a girl running that’s me
and i can assure you
it will be from this chance for godhood
and what all those new agers chant about.
* the now *
god i hate that cruel catch phrase
that middle finger of platitudes
forcing its sobering focus
on the inescapable fact that all your critical choices
made on a whim
appearing now as regrettably dumb.
Like that flippant goodbye i threw around at you
as if i would ever feel that way again
about anyone
and no
I never did.
you see, my heart’s a cowboy
too foolhardy with the lasso
that hip gun too
always going off
especially each time you’re not in view.
Did i tell you you i’m lost without you?
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 8:28 AM UTC
Synaesthesia... Seeing music in colours words in colours feelings In colours
The gift of seeing music in colours
the curse of feelings in colours dark
to know words in colours
is that Godhood's in me
Let those that think on a higher level
know that the master of colours is near
he called me in claimed winds
and then told me a storm will begin
He said I think you know me
look into the murky seas for me
for soon I will come from the sea
in sepia profound dark glory
Then the sea shells sung
with no inhabitants in
for water does crush on cliffs
to claim the land again
But the colour is blue
is what Is seen of the sea
with algae to match green for sure as well
for she is generous to gives us air to breath
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 6:47 PM UTC
Long ago there lived a man,
a little Frenchman,
he had an idea,
a wonderful contradiction.
If you choose to believe,
decide what you'll get,
make your choice,
your's to agree or contradict.
If you choose disbelief,
and find yourself in the right,
you'll find yourself forever gone,
and if wrong,
everything is lost.
If you choose belief,
and find yourself in the wrong,
you'll find you care not at all,
but if right,
eternal is your delight.
Even if the man upstairs doesn't exist,
I say that he does,
a culmination of ethics and good,
we a member of the godhood.
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 4:54 PM UTC
What is that one thing which we all crave or want the most of in life?
is it wealth, health, fame, knowledge, love, a perfect husband or wife?
Or is it in fact a combination of all these things and yet even so much more?
something, perhaps that is everlasting, once gained can never be lost at all?
If such a thing did exist then could it be acquired or had?
and if so how could one have it and do good instead of bad?
Where would such a thing be found or come from or who be the giver thereof?
Could it be made available to all at any time when there was a genuine need of?
Is it a state of divinity the source of infinite power, knowledge and bliss
that each and every one can attain being their birthright but only dismiss?
It just so happens that all the true religions of the world seem to point in that direction
calling it specifically by a different name while having the same underlying conception.
An ultimate realised state of immortality without any restriction of time or space
transcending body, mind and individuality; every subtle and phenomenal place.
Not subject to any change or decay, though embracing all within itself seeing
and as one without any second, immaculate and complete, an unlimited being.
A supreme unique state of freedom and really the most sought after thing,
a plane of being of pure wisdom which in its wake all the above does bring.
That one victory of all victories which wins yourself and your true Selfhood
the real purpose and meaning of all life culminating in Universal Godhood.
There have been many in the past and even in the present who have gained this state
although it's virtually impossible to attain on one's own without being their good mate.
So dedicate yourself for the goal with love to gain their divine favour or benevolent grace
by a pure mind and heart seek their company letting one of them guide you to That Place.
Jul 5, 2011
Jul 5, 2011 at 2:01 AM UTC
From the darkness you created
and formed me from the clay.
You made me king of all you’d done,
though I hadn’t worked a day.
Your love was overwhelming,
but I was not content.
I fell asleep and you to work.
A rib was all I lent.
Oh what a gift that you had giv’n!
A partner made for me.
Paradise with one condition,
don’t touch the dying tree.
Then the serpent whispered softly,
that death does not await.
He told the lie that he believed,
“Godhood could be your fate.”
So scorning all that you had done,
we chose our own conceit.
What great shame and fear we had felt
at the sound of your feet!
Then we told of our fatal act
in words of wounded pride,
on your faultless back set the blame.
No sin did we confide.
You cursed us all for our hubris;
we walked with heads hung low,
across ground cursed from Eden East.
God, I wish I didn’t know.
But though my sin had sown my death
and you the one I scorned,
you walked beside me all the way
to comfort while I mourned.
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 10:17 PM UTC
Godhood sickens me,
set my hands ablaze,
free my brain,
I want to cry no more,
I always had trouble holding my *****
be an Angel.
Feb 24, 2011
Feb 24, 2011 at 9:00 AM UTC
"To be or not to be?" is not really the vital question in a person's life to ask
"Who am I?" is instead the one whose answer to find is our life's main task.
When the truth of the answer to that question is realised or becomes known
the transition from common manhood to Godhood in Reality one has grown.
______________________________________________________________
Sep 5, 2012
Sep 5, 2012 at 1:29 AM UTC
Eyes shut glancing into eternity
Monastically still in his own sadness.
Forever a cloud over his sun.
There is no foundation upon which to build.
Styx always flowing too fast to jump;
Life: too slow.
The eye, his eye, red from exhaustion & drought,
Algiz of the soul, inversed.
He has no apotheosis nor revelation of Godhood.
The golden light in his life,
dulled to a smoldering shadow,
could not be re-ignited.
Others smile without hesitation, nor lies.
Others' light: a golden fire.
There is no door out of life for the cowardly,
& no spark to rebirth the light.
A cold limbo, his.
The crushing weight of the world,
moste existential,
was also the dreadful crushing weight of existence for him.
Everyday, a labored breath of smoke drenched air.
Every lie, a cry for help he neither wanted nor deserved.
..
Walking blindly through the fog of existence.
Forever, forever...
Unto nothing, nihil, nothing...
Forever.
Nothing.
..Forever.
Jul 25, 2017
Jul 25, 2017 at 3:18 PM UTC
We meet our next jump point
dropping out of star drive
we have the jump on them
our dropships detach and dive
One starship against a world
her captain a child of pure war
his crew are the most loyal
they venerate him to godhood and adore
He always fights with his own
he leaves on a drop ship right now
he always fights with his troops
for he is the true commander of the fleet
Just watch them go
see them falling to the land from the skies
we know he will lead them into battle
and no sabers will be rattled
Our lord never disappoints
he has deadlines to fix
we now form another jump point
to see what battle will be next
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 6:30 AM UTC
The ancients put tremendous matters
On oracles and auguries.
When godhood speaks, the priest agrees.
Glib cunning fails when trouble batters.
Calculations have a thousand ways
To err, while chance can cut the odds
To one in ten, or more if gods
Drop hints about our dossiers.
Augurs read events to come
From entrails, bones, and scattered sticks.
Their guesses are arithmetics
For problems reasoning can’t sum.
Jan 17, 2022
Jan 17, 2022 at 10:06 AM UTC
Black bones. The pages twist. Oxygen runs down the furrows, split the spines. It hurts to look at. White phosphor. Teeth breaking.
I reached my hand in once. Jar of words. Symbols running like a river into the sea. They lose all meaning. Skin wet with breath.
Morning cold or an empty grip. Doesn’t matter.
They used to dance. Shadows running into the heart. Veins tangled. Feet kicking dust.
I’ve been trying to get the words out for awhile now. It hurts the more I try.
Backwards or forwards. Everyone smiles, but the gap grows and grows. We’re progressing, they say; heads rotting hollow. I try to fish them out, but pierce their flesh.
It’s dead now, so they leave.
I used to stare at the stars until they’d burned into my dreams. Ouroboros shaped like a maw. Infinity.
Progress. Human beings. Fingers, throats, airways. Seams of tissue, fibrous joints. I’m sick of humanitarians. Conscious flesh rising into godhood, breaching sanity. Hubris. Stupid words, talking themselves out of existence. Circles in circles. Black crows pecking at mirrors until they break. The animal runs its legs to the ground. Biology. Cells. DNA synthesis. Ligase, unwinding. Atomic emptiness. Split the human. Hiroshima. The enlightenment, a success. Clink of glassware. The president eats burnt flesh.
But none of that matters.
I press the ash between my tips. It feels like fur, collapsing skies. A junction that once was, and now will never be. There is time here. A broken, sad thing. Prisoner of its own flesh, sand in glass. I am lost in this moment. I am disappearing. Breaking like light through a prism.
Why do we even try?
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 11:04 PM UTC
I've taken up a part-time job as a chew toy,
and a full-time job as a broken bird.
My wings, once white and magnificent,
now have shriveled and vanished,
for I am Icarus and have flown too close to my sun.
Men without faces to beds without feelings,
is this truly what I wanted?
Or am I the ultimate *********
stuck in a constant scene with no safe word,
taking hit after hit because I feel I deserve it.
I find myself at the feet of Eros, beautiful in his godhood,
and I pray, I pray, please tell me I'm worth more than this,
tell me I can love, though I know not what love is,
nor if I deserve it,
tell me I can make something out of this chaos I have flown into.
And as he smiles, I feel my vision blurring as I hit the mattress,
that ****** mattress on the floor, plush with a false sense of security, but firm in its reminder of what I am;
he cups my face and stabs me,
"This is nothing,"
and so nothing I am.
Apr 22, 2019
Apr 22, 2019 at 11:30 AM UTC
You devils who do deal me wrong
In need, in despair, even in sleep
I defeat you with shameless tongue
And defy your cause
By the minute
Till the morn be night
And dark, light
Till the time meets
The tearing limit.
You gods whom
I'm supposed to trust
To obey, to praise
Till my time is done
Be aware that the day is dark
Where the Sun
Is helpless to shine.
Godhood is reasoned
Devilhood is pawned
Let the notion of good and bad
Be odd.
May 11, 2018
May 11, 2018 at 5:22 AM UTC